And now he stood, with brow serene, Where slaves might prostrate fall, Bearing a Briton's manly mien In Cæsar's palace hall; Claiming, with kindled brow and cheek, The liberty e'en there to speak.
Nor could Rome's haughty lord withstand The claim that look preferred, But motioned with uplifted hand The suppliant should be heard,-- If he indeed a suppliant were Whose glance demanded audience there.
Deep stillness fell on all the crowd, From Claudius on his throne Down to the meanest slave that bowed At his imperial throne; Silent his fellow-captive's grief As fearless spoke the Island Chief:
"Think not, thou eagle Lord of Rome, And master of the world, Though victory's banner o'er thy dome In triumph now is furled, I would address thee as thy slave, But as the bold should greet the brave!
"I might, perchance, could I have deigned To hold a vassal's throne, E'en now in Britain's isle have reigned A king in name alone, Yet holding, as thy meek ally, A monarch's mimic pageantry.
"Then through Rome's crowded streets to-day I might have rode with thee, Not in a captive's base array, But fetterless and free,-- If freedom he could hope to find, Whose bondage is of heart and mind.
"But canst thou marvel that, freeborn, With heart and soul unquelled, Throne, crown, and sceptre I should scorn, By thy permission held? Or that I should retain my right Till wrested by a conqueror's might?
"Rome, with her palaces and towers, By us unwished, unreft, Her homely huts and woodland bowers To Britain might have left; Worthless to you their wealth must be, But dear to us, for they were free!
"I might have bowed before, but where Had been thy triumph now? To my resolve no yoke to bear Thou ow'st thy laurelled brow; Inglorious victory had been thine, And more inglorious bondage mine.
"Now I have spoken, do thy will; Be life or death my lot, Since Britain's throne no more I fill, To me it matters not. My fame is clear; but on my fate Thy glory or thy shame must wait."
He ceased; from all around upsprung A murmur of applause, For well had truth and freedom's tongue Maintained their holy cause. The conqueror was the captive then; He bade the slave be free again.
My voice is still for war. Gods! can a Roman senate long debate Which of the two to choose, slavery or death? No; let us rise at once, gird on our swords, And at the head of our remaining troops Attack the foe, break through the thick array Of his thronged legions, and charge home upon him. Perhaps some arm, more lucky than the rest, May reach his heart, and free the world from bondage. Rise! Fathers, rise! 'tis Rome demands your help: Rise, and revenge her slaughtered citizens, Or share their fate! The corpse of half her senate Manures the fields of Thessaly, while we Sit here deliberating, in cold debate, If we should sacrifice our lives to honor, Or wear them out in servitude and chains. Rouse up, for shame! our brothers of Pharsalia Point at their wounds, and cry aloud,--"To battle!" Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow, And Scipio's ghost walks unrevenged amongst us.